Bookends (29 page)

As he continued up the steep, curving drive, a cluster of ornate stones on the left caught his eye, including one name that struck a chord:
Landis.
He whistled a command at Trix, then knelt before a small grave marker with a cradle carved into the gray, polished granite.

“Here, Trix.” His voice suddenly hoarse, he began reading the inscription aloud, as if trying to convince himself it was genuine. “Clayton Robert Landis. Born March 6. Died March 11.”

Only five days.
Jonas felt an invisible vise clamp down on his chest.
He would be a little boy of seven now.

There was more. “Son of Andrew and Elizabeth Landis.”

It couldn’t be.
Drew. And Beth.
The vise gripped harder.

He’d never asked about other kids. Sara was born soon after he moved to town, and he just assumed … he never dreamed …

Beth.
Beth, the woman who adored children, who helped with the nursery and the children’s choir, who mothered little Sara like a lioness caring for her cub. Beth had survived the unimaginable heartache of placing her infant son in a casket five days after first holding him in her arms.

Stunned, Jonas rose to his feet, drawing in air with big gulps, his constricted throat and chest muscles fighting every breath.
Clayton Landis.
This little one he had never met, had not even known existed until now, all at once became real to him.

The loss was real, too.

Jonas stepped back slowly, with respect, then turned toward the church, walking forward but seeing nothing, still grappling with the unwelcome news. Trix, aware only of his change in mood, did her best to wrap herself around his legs, nuzzling his hand, nipping his coat with her teeth. “I see you, girl,” he murmured, scratching her head.

He had never lost a son, but he’d lost a father.

Either tragedy brought more than enough pain to last a lifetime.

Oddly, Nathan came to mind. A brother who was very much alive, yet lost to him in many ways. The rehab was necessary, no question. The smartest five thousand dollars he’d ever spent. When Nate’s month was up, Jonas hoped he’d come spend a few weeks with him in Lititz. See how
refreshing life in a small town could be.

His spirits restored at the prospect, Jonas lifted his head and realized he’d almost reached God’s Acre, the oldest section of the cemetery. The large, square grounds had no monuments, only flat slabs of marble marking each grave, facing east, with the sexes carefully separated into choirs—men and boys, women and girls. Moravians never died; they merely fell asleep or went home, while their bodies remained buried awaiting resurrection.

No wonder the Easter sunrise service included a triumphant walk to God’s Acre with trombones sounding and voices raised in hallelujah. It was not a place of the dead, but of those alive in Christ. Even Trix jogged along at a happy pace, oblivious to her surroundings. She was with her master on hallowed ground. All was well.

On the grassy edge, near the stone and wood archway that led to the church buildings, stood a woman in a light gray suit, her back toward him, surrounded by two others and a man balancing a camera on his shoulder. Jonas grinned, finally recognizing her.
Well, whaddaya know. Emilie Getz.
She’d removed her sling, probably for the camera, and was gesturing in wide sweeps with the other arm.

He lengthened his stride, tempted to call out, yet sensing Emilie was being interviewed.
Something
was happening, at any rate. He closed the gap between them, stopping five yards away to watch and listen as the cameraman from WGAL-TV shouted, “Rolling!”

The reporter, a perky brunette with a vaguely familiar name, prattled on about the 250th anniversary celebration, then turned to introduce her guest. “With us on this important occasion is Dr. Emilie Getz, professor of history at Salem College in North Carolina. Dr. Getz, tell us what this day means to the Moravians of Lititz.”

Jonas grinned.
Yeah, tell us all about it, Doc.

He knew his amused expression might throw off her concentration, so he pinched his lips tightly shut, willing them not to curl up on the ends.

Emilie was the essence of poised professionalism as she leaned toward the microphone. “We Moravians are very proud of our heritage. February 9 is a day for celebrating the leap of faith made by twenty-seven visionary souls, people whose hearts were awakened to the joy of knowing Christ.”

The grin escaped.
You oughtta know, Doc.

Undistracted, Emilie launched into a bright and breezy review of the
local congregation, from Gemeinhaus to God’s Acre and everything in between. Clearly, Dr. Getz and the Lord were on a roll. The young reporter merely smiled and nodded, wide-eyed at her knowledgeable guest.

When Emilie finished, the reporter abruptly scanned her notes, flustered, it seemed, over losing her place. Finally, she blurted out, “Uh … Dr. Getz, someone at the church mentioned that in addition to the commemorative book you are writing, you are also doing a private research project. One involving a piece of property in town and a possible archaeological dig. Would you care to comment?”

Jonas held his breath.
She wouldn’t.
Would she?

No, Emilie.

His grin long gone, Jonas stared at her in silence, willing her to keep this to herself. The committee knew; the community did not.
Not now, Emilie. No comment. Say “No comment.
”

He trained his eyes on her, praying she got the message.

She did.

“You’ve certainly done your homework.” Emilie’s tone was smooth and assuring. “But since
my
homework isn’t finished on this subject yet, I’ll save my comments until I have something definite—and definitely exciting—to share with your Channel Eight viewers.”

Jonas exhaled, his smile firmly back in place.
What a pro. What a woman!
He listened as Emilie offered a few more interesting tidbits about the church’s plans for the year ahead, from picnics to putzing, carol sings to trombone choir concerts. “We’ll begin with a special anniversary lovefeast on the fourteenth.” Emilie looked straight at the camera. “Do join us, won’t you? Ten-thirty Sunday morning.”

On cue, the church bells tolled the hour. Four long chimes—on a lower, more solemn note than the quarter hour bells. The musical sound reverberated through the crisp February air as the reporter closed her story with a wide shot of the church behind her and a joy-filled historian by her side.

Watching Emilie bid her good-byes to the television crew, Jonas impatiently started inching her direction. He didn’t want to rush her, yet longed to simply touch her hand, reconnect with her. They’d spoken on the phone each day since Thursday and sat together at the second service on Sunday, causing a full hour of rubbernecking around the sanctuary.

She’d hated it.

He’d loved it.

Jonas paused mere steps away and sized up her camera-ready look. The suit was new, a soft gray not unlike the silvery sky above.
Or the granite headstones in the cemetery.
He’d have to tell her about that, about little Clayton Landis. Though maybe she’d already heard.
Women always know these things.

Her hair was more tamed than usual, gathered into a tidy clump.
Nah. Not a clump. A French something-or-other.
Her lips and cheeks were pinker than he’d ever remembered—not makeup, not his Emilie—and her graceful hand waved through the air as she spoke with yet another woman who’d been waiting for her on the sidelines.

All at once, Emilie turned his direction and flashed him the most dazzling smile he’d seen her display yet.

“Hello, Jonas.”

He loved the way she said his name.

“Please forgive me.” Emilie inclined her head toward the waiting reporter. “The
Record Express
is here for an interview now. You know …” She shrugged, avoiding his gaze for a moment. “The anniversary and such.”

“Sure. No problem.” He couldn’t resist squeezing her hand, if only for a moment. “Are you busy later?”

“The … well, the
Intelligencer Journal
will be calling at four-thirty for a brief story as well.” She was blushing like a schoolgirl. He liked schoolgirls as long as they were his age and single. And named Emilie.

“So, after your media blitz today, might you have time for an old friend?” He tipped his chin down. “One who knew you
before
you became famous?”

“Of course, silly. Besides, I have another houseplant for you. How is your
fittonia
doing?”

“Er.… it’s good. Yeah, good.”
Good and drowned.
How was he supposed to know the shower would wash out all the dirt, or that shampoo and plants shouldn’t mix? “I’ll take good care of this new one, I promise.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Oh?”

Not much got past this woman.

“Emilie, I also need to talk to you about … some things.”
Several, in fact.
“Okay if I swing by your house about seven?”

She nodded, already being pulled into another photo shoot, this time with a woman and her Nikon. “See you at seven,” she mouthed, then gave the newspaper reporter her full attention.

Trix, patiently waiting her turn, barked with abandon as Jonas scratched her head and pointed them toward home, rehearsing in his mind the words he was going to say, beginning with a prayer request for one very dead
fittonia.

Emilie watered the leafy pepperface plant with great care. Too much water and the roots would rot.
Then again, it may be weeks before Jonas remembers to give you another drink, little one.
She splashed in a bit extra, pinched off a withered stem, then polished its waxy leaves with a paper towel.

She glanced at the clock.
Ten minutes.
That is,
if
the man was on time. He’d been doing much better in that department, though.
Much better in lots of departments.
He was still wearing his jeans-and-T uniform, but lately he seemed freshly shaved every time she saw him.

“That way I won’t scratch your tender skin when I kiss you,” he’d informed her when she mentioned it. She’d turned scarlet. Was warming again now at the memory. Smiling too.

Oh, Jonas.
The man made her feel sixteen again.
Check that.
Sixteen had been an awful year. In fact, other than one milkshake with the now-very-married Brian Zeller, Emilie couldn’t compare any of her earlier experiences with men—boys, really—to the roller-coaster ride she’d lived through in the last few days with Jonas Fielding.

He was bright, attentive, caring, funny. Both devout
and
irreverent, if such a thing were possible. And my, but the man had a way of making her heart beat faster with nothing more than a feathery touch; a dark-eyed glance; a single, chaste kiss. Surely Jonas would see fit to let her press on with her Gemeinhaus research now.

As thrilling as their time together had been—then and since—it was what happened between his black-suited appearance in her doorway and their breath-stealing moments in the kitchen Thursday evening that filled her heart and mind. She was having a hard time putting words to her feelings, but she’d tried on three occasions, with mixed results.

Her mother had wrinkled her brow. “You feel like you know God? Emilie Gayle, what a silly thing to say! You’ve always known who God is, dear, ever since you were old enough to say the word.”

Her father had listened, nodded, and agreed with her mother.
Of course.
They both perked up, though, when she mentioned she’d been having tea with Jonas Fielding at the time.

“On a date, did you say, Emilie?”

Things had gone much better with Beth last Friday.

“Emilie, you prayed
what?
” Beth’s eyes had shone with tears as they’d sat together on her enclosed back porch that afternoon, Sara napping on the nearby loveseat, the house unusually quiet.

Emilie gulped, still uncomfortable with emotionally charged words, no matter how accurately they described things. “I … uh, told the Lord I loved him. And asked his forgiveness for not … well, including him more in my life.”
There. Not so bad.

Beth hugged her neck then asked for minute-by-minute details, which Emilie shared as best she could. Except for that business in the kitchen. She’d start blushing again.
Fie!
She
did
blush again, even without mentioning it, prompting Beth to ask if anything else had transpired.

Emilie jerked her chin toward the back door, feigning interest in the window shade, the doorknob, anything. “Jonas and I kissed, and that’s all I’ll say about it.”

Beth laughed so loudly that Sara stirred in her sleep. “That’s more than enough information, Em,” Beth assured her in a stage whisper.

It was then, staring out the back door, that Emilie noticed a wire fence enclosing a grove of hemlock and tall, old pine trees in a square area behind the Landis property. “Is that what I think it is?”

“An old graveyard.” Beth tucked Sara’s blanket up under her chin and smoothed her curly, blond locks. “Saint Somebody-or-other.”

Emilie was on her feet, nose pressed against the glass pane. “Of course! St. James. After Zinzendorf preached here, the settlers joined forces—Lutheran, Reformed, and Mennonite—and founded a Union Church. It was named after James because the log church was dedicated in July 1744 on the day of his festival. The log structure is long gone, of course—dismantled in 1771 and used to build a miller’s house along Carter’s Run—but the graves are still here.”

Beth chuckled softly and shook her head. “Do all these facts just live in your head, Em?”

Emilie shrugged. “Afraid so. Four years later this congregation joined with the new Moravian one. A decade later, the first Easter morning service was held right in this graveyard.”

Beth’s smirk was less than subtle. “With trombones, I suppose.”

“No, those came later. French horns were first used in 1763, but the trombones didn’t come into use until 1779 when—” Emilie realized Beth was covering her ears and trying not to laugh. “Okay, I’ll stop. Really, Beth, you should know better than to throw an historian a bone like that.
With trombones.
Honestly, it’s your own fault.”